


This Cruel, Tired World

by faerierequiem



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: beware of violence and a lot of language, consider it lynchy, not lynchest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerierequiem/pseuds/faerierequiem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Declan Lynch lives a life composed of two different worlds. One is a life of the older, responsible brother, filled with careful pretenses that everything is safe and normal. The other is a life on the constant lookout for the monsters that lurk within the shadows, a dangerous world that killed his father and is still out for much more. When the two worlds clash, Ronan is caught in the cross fire and Declan must protect what matters most — or die trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Cruel, Tired World

**Author's Note:**

> Not really important, but this takes place after _The Dream Thieves_.

Not only did the car look as if a giant had stepped on it, but it was as if the giant had been about to leave and then decided last minute to dance a jig on it as well. It wasn’t Ronan’s BMW, but the thought did not comfort Declan one bit. He turned his eyes from the chaos. Even if it was someone else’s car, they had the money to pay for it thank goodness, but leave it to Ronan to be capable of destroying a car like this. Questions filled his mind, but he decided it was better off not knowing the answers.

Something caught his attention and he frowned. “Why are the tires slashed?”

A smug expression came over Ronan’s face. He leaned out from his tight spot in the indented passenger side and turned his head to look at the car’s deflated tires. “Figured I should busy myself with something as I waited for you.”

Declan closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. “Why couldn’t you at least have had the decency to make a mess on a day with nice weather?” he grumbled. Overhead, the sky was gray and thick with masses of clouds, undoubtedly festering with the contents of a storm.

“I didn’t know you thought I had nice manners.” Even with his eyes closed, Declan could tell Ronan was smirking. He could hear it in his brother’s voice.

In a bite of frustration, Declan kicked at the busted rear of the car. “Get your ass in the Volvo, Ronan,” he ordered.

To his surprise, Ronan got to his feet, turning to pat the car. “Don’t be too rough with her. She’s been through too much already.”

Declan flipped him off.

With a mocking laugh, Ronan walked off to the Volvo, parked just off to the side of the catastrophe.

Declan took a moment to think over the situation. As stranded far into nowhere as the place was, he knew the location. When the weather cleared up, he could call in a tow truck to come clean this up. And—he glanced down to look at the license plate, but there was none; probably lost off God-knows-where. Declan let out a sigh. Well, if someone reported a missing car, he would know who to repay.

Taking one last look at its bruised, broken state, Declan turned for his own car.

Ronan had the passenger seat leaned back as far as it could. He laid with his arms underneath his head, blinking up at the roof of the car. At the sound of the door opening, he spared a passing glance at Declan, bored, before turning to look out the window.

Declan slammed shut the door and inserted his key into the ignition. “Sit up properly and put on your seatbelt,” he chided, even though he knew it was a useless move to make. Ronan never listened to him, but at least he tried. He rested easier knowing that it wouldn’t be his side that would be at fault.

Ronan rolled his eyes. “You drive like a Grandma.”

Declan gave him a tight smile as he pulled onto the road. “Not everyone drives like they’re being chased by twenty cop cars.”

Ronan let out a snort. “God, you think you’re so high and mighty just because the law would be on your side.” He shifted in his seat, turning his back to Declan. “Trust me. If anyone else on this damn planet had picked up their phone, I definitely wouldn’t have been calling you.”

“Good to know I’m last on your list,” Declan said, drily. “Makes me special in a way, doesn’t it?”

Ronan only graced him with the reply of a certain raised finger.

Declan drove on in silence for a few moments before he reached out and turned on the radio. Queen poured out from the speakers and Freddie Mercury was singing the opening lines of Bohemian Rhapsody. “Is this the real life?/Is this just fantasy?/Caught in a landslide,/No escape from reality.”

Faintly, he heard Ronan singing along, but he pretended to be oblivious despite listening intently. It had been too long since he’d last heard Ronan sing something that wasn’t church hymns. Among the Lynch brothers, Ronan was the best singer. Try as he could, Matthew was not made for a music career and Declan didn’t even want to think about himself, but at “mama, just killed a man” he found himself beginning to sing. He knew he was flat, but when Ronan went quiet and looked over his shoulder at him, Declan didn’t cease singing, only raised an eyebrow.

Ronan pulled his seat forward and leaned an elbow against the dashboard. There was a challenge in his eyes and he cut in on “mama, didn’t mean to make you cry”, carrying his voice easily along with the “oooo”. When the verse ended and he didn’t start singing again, Declan knew it was his turn to sing, so he did. “Too late, my time has come,/Sent shivers down my spine,/Body’s aching all the time…”

He sung until Ronan broke in, faultlessly singing again the “oooo”.

“Mama, I don’t want to die,” his brother sung. “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all…”

Declan held back a grin, deliberately keeping his eyes on the road. He didn’t have to check for cues, didn’t have ask, because he knew. In unison, they sung the next parts of the songs, switching off to do echoes. And at “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me”, Ronan dramatically shouted and sung the words and pointed at himself, nearing his pointer finger closer and closer to his chest for emphasis.

“Jesus Christ, Ronan!” Declan burst out laughing.

Ronan smiled. “Try not to be too jealous,” he said, haughtily.

Declan shook his head, laughing too hard to be able to reply.

Together, they finished the song and when the next song began, Ronan wrinkled his nose and turned it off.

“What?” Declan asked. “You don’t like that band?”

“No,” Ronan said. “I hate them.” He sat back in his seat, looking surprisingly satisfied and alright with the world for once.

Declan was feeling content himself. He felt proud. For once, he’d done something right with Ronan and he hadn’t even meant to. Maybe this was a sign that he should stop trying. Or start taking singing lessons or both. It was tiring being the antagonist all of the time.

Outside, fog had begun to emerge, making the rural landscape around them hazy and dreamlike. If it had been dismal before, now it was completely depressing. Declan was reminded of how much he hated any kind of weather that wasn’t at least over 70 degrees.

“There’s a car following us.”

For a moment, Declan didn’t register Ronan’s words. Then with a start, he whipped his attention to them. “What did you say?” he demanded.

“There’s a car following us,” Ronan repeated. He was running his hands over the bands on his arms in an almost anxious manner. “At first I thought that they were only heading in the same direction as us, so I didn’t really care, but they’ve been making sure to keep out of sight for a while now. It’s giving me the fucking creeps.”

Declan felt his pulse quicken. He glanced in the rearview mirror. If he concentrated hard enough, he could make out the form of a dark car trialing after them, almost gray enough to fade into the fog. Trying to focus, he quickly pieced together a plan. Pressing down on the gas pedal, he sped forward, making sure that the car had disappeared from sight in the rearview mirror before—as fast as he could—he made a sharp turn off the side of the road into the nearby field.

It was proof of Ronan’s worries that this didn’t earn Declan a comment about his sudden un-Grandmotherly driving.

He continued on for a distance before making a U-turn with the Volvo and stopping. He didn’t want to lead that car to Henrietta. It would be a stupid move to make. Hell, he had already led it far enough. It really didn’t matter now, but he wasn’t going to risk his chances. Suddenly, he was thankful for the cover the fog would provide them. If it worked for their opponent, it would sure as hell work for them, too.

Debating rather or not to leave the engine on, Declan quickly decided to turn it off, but he left the keys in the ignition just in case of an emergency. He undid his seatbelt and leaned across Ronan, reaching out a hand.

“Declan, what the fuck?” Ronan started to ask, but he went silent at the sight of the gun Declan pulled out of the glove box.

As Declan made sure that the gun was loaded—although he knew it was, because he always checked that there were bullets, but it was better to be safe than sorry—Ronan regained his composure. “Why do you have a fucking gun in your car?”

Declan didn’t answer. He opened the door and made a move to get out, but then he stopped and looked his brother in the eyes. “Stay in the car.” There was more that he wanted to say, but there wasn’t enough time and he didn’t want to scare Ronan even more, so he turned and left.

He should have known Ronan wouldn’t obey him. Even if it was for his own good, Ronan would always ignore his words. As Declan crouched low in the field, watching the road, Ronan joined him, eyes slightly wider than usual and hands still nervously running over his arms.

“I told you to stay inside,” Declan hissed.

Ronan didn’t answer. Despite everything about the whole situation, that was what scared Declan the most. Ronan wasn’t supposed to know of this cruel, dangerous world. Ronan already had his own version of it. He should never have to cross into this one. This one was the one Declan dealt with, but despite all his efforts to keep it separate and hidden, now Ronan was crouching next to him, more aware of it than ever before, more than Declan had ever wanted.

He felt his hold tighten on the gun angrily. But what had he expected? The world wasn’t fair. It never had been for him, but he had gotten used to that. What he would never get used to was his brothers getting the ruthless end of it, too. Ever since their father had died, everything had gone downhill.

A sensation registered in him, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see Ronan’s fingers, gently touching his arm, almost hesitantly.

An intensity of fondness flooded into Declan. As much as he and Ronan argued and fought and hated each other, he would always— _always_ —care for his brother. Ronan was a force to be reckoned with, tough to handle and rash and coarse and disobedient and just about a million other things that gave Declan a headache, but his brother was not the worst thing in Declan’s life—no, not by a long shot.

He loosened his hold on the gun and reached over with one hand to cover Ronan’s. He leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear, “Sorry to disappoint you, but you aren’t going to be meeting Beelzebub’s devil today.”

Ronan’s blue eyes flickered towards him and his mouth opened, but before he could say something, a nearing sound caused them both to look back to the road.

Declan gripped at the gun, pointing it in the direction of the road. Swear to God, if that car dared to fucking stop and if whoever the hell it was that was inside decided to get out, then, well, he’d be ready. He’d be more than ready. Funny how Ronan had said that the law would be on his side. Declan had never killed anyone before, but he was prepared to, had always been prepared to. Blood-stained hands didn’t matter much to him anymore—especially when it came to his brothers’ safety.

As they waited, Declan was half-aware of Ronan’s turned hand, of their fingers intertwining, of holding tight. His knuckles were white, pale even against his already pale skin. His chest felt tight like he was being choked. Trembling, Declan held his breath and waited and waited and waited. The wait lasted an eternity.

An eternity later, he felt Ronan’s shoulder press against his and he nearly dropped the gun, but he steadied his hand and kept it aimed.

Something emerged from the fog. Declan stilled, inhaled a lungful of air, and squeezed his brother’s hand harder. It was the car.

The next moment was another eternity.

The car seemed to move in slow-motion and it took Declan a moment to realize that it was moving slowly. Whoever it was that was inside was aware of what he was possibly up to. They were probably searching for any sign of the Volvo. Too late, it occurred to Declan that he should have ditched the car and had Ronan and him go back to Henrietta by foot or call for someone to pick them up somewhere discreet.

He flinched, caught sight of Ronan’s free hand wrapping around his hand on the gun. He realized that he’d lowered the gun. He cursed himself for getting too wrapped up in his own mind and not staying aware of his surroundings. A dropped guard was fatal. You might as well be asking for death.

He looked at his brother from out of the corner of his eye, wanting to communicate that he could handle the weapon just fine on his own now, but the sharpness in Ronan’s face told him that,  _damn him_ , if he was going to press the trigger, they were going to do it together.

But they didn’t press the trigger.

The car crawled by, painstakingly slow, before passing and disappearing back into the fog.

Relief filled Declan and he wanted to drop the gun and hug the shit out of Ronan, but he knew it was too early. It wasn’t time for celebration just yet. And Ronan seemed to understand, because he did not let go of the gun, his shoulder pressed deeper into Declan’s, and he held Declan’s hand as if it were the only thing preventing him from dropping down to an early death.

They waited one final eternity, listening for any signs of an approaching car or footsteps and eyeing everything around them intently, because even a split second of noticing the enemy before the enemy noticed them could work out tremendously in their favor.

At long last, nothing happened. There was no sound and nothing but the endless fog and the fast beating of their hearts.

Declan let out a long, unsteady breath and allowed himself to close his eyes for a brief moment. He felt Ronan finally release his hold the gun and he lowered it onto his knees, but Ronan did not pull away his other hand and their hands laid between them, locked tighter than ever before.

When he opened his eyes, Ronan was staring at him. He leaned forward and uttered to Declan, “I don’t have to fucking die to see Beezlebub’s devil. You’re him, you big idiot. Come from hell to torture me in life.”

Wearily, Declan smiled at him. “I knew I was special.”

* * *

Eventually it started to rain.

They had been sitting in the Volvo, silent, lost in their own thoughts, but then Declan started the car and drove, turning away from Henrietta and pressing down on the gas pedal, soon going well past the speed limit within seconds. The fog had subsided more than he would have wanted and now putting as much distance between them and their chasers would have to settle as the next best thing.

Ronan’s voice cut through the silence. “You’re breaking all the rules today.”

“I’ve always been the badass,” Declan said. “Don’t cry over it too much.”

Under his breath, Ronan let out a sound that said otherwise. A second later, he spoke again, “You were really going to shoot.” It wasn’t a question.

Declan shrugged. “Yeah. I was.”

“Damn,” Ronan muttered, quietly. He sounded a little astounded. “I didn’t even know you knew how to use a gun.”

Again, Declan shrugged, but he couldn’t help but feel a little bit smug at his brother’s slight inability to process this new information.

Ronan turned on the radio. For a moment, they listened to electronic music. Then, Ronan switched to a classical station, music that was easier to settle in the background of a conversation. “Where are we going?”

Declan caught sight of a truck in the distance and switched to the other lane, passing by the car and cutting it off and continuing to speed ahead. “I don’t know. A hotel. Somewhere to stay for the night,” he said. “Allensburg is up ahead.”

Allensburg, when compared to Henrietta, was not much different in terms of people or appearance or utility. It occurred to Declan that he had basically traded one small town for another. It was definitely not the best deal, but it would have to do.

He parked the Volvo behind the abandoned space of an empty factory, hiding it from view and hoping he wouldn’t come back to find it looted. He was grateful that he never kept valuables in his car.

“Come on. Let’s go find a place to stay,” he said to Ronan. He slid his wallet into his pocket, opened the door, got out, and—after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching—stuffed the gun into his pants.

Ronan looked amused. “Have you ever gone to church before like that?” He asked.

Declan rolled his eyes. “Get out.”

Ronan’s door opened and he stepped out, standing up tall and stretching his arms towards the sky.

The rain was more mist than rain, but Declan still wouldn’t have preferred to stay outside for longer than necessary. He clicked the car doors closed once Ronan had shut his door and then gestured for his brother to follow him. At a quick pace, they crossed the street, continued down three more, and turned the corner. The hotel that had caught Declan’s eye earlier awaited them. With a quick swipe of his hands, he smoothed out his clothes and entered the building, head held up high, back straight, confident gait.

The man working at the desk didn’t even look up at the sound of them entering.

As he neared the desk, Declan cleared his throat in order to draw the man’s attention. Taking out his wallet, he requested a room for two. With no shift in his expression, the man collected the money, told him the number of the room, and handed him the key.

“You two have a nice night,” he said in a monotone voice.

Declan gave the man a pleasant smile. “Thank you,” he said, ignoring Ronan’s sarcastic murmuring from behind him. “Same goes for you too.”

As they turned and walked away, Declan nudged Ronan in the side. “Be nice,” he said, lowly. “He might be having a horrible day or something.”

Ronan scoffed. “Didn’t know you were so considerate.”

Declan held in a sigh. Ronan was as impossible as ever.

They reached the door and Declan inserted in the key, opening the door and allowing for Ronan to step through first. He glanced around the hallway before entering the room himself and closing the door, locking it up tight.

* * *

As the day wore off and night arrived, thunder began and lightning lit the curtains in quick, merciless flashes. They did not speak very much and took turns using the bathroom. Ronan went first.

As he waited, Declan called Gansey, telling him that Ronan was with him and making up a reassuring lie about their situation, and then he called Matthew, making him promise to spend the night with friends he trusted and to be safe.

When it was his turn to use the bathroom, Declan felt as if he would have had to stand under the running water for days if he wanted his mind to stop churning. Usually showers calmed him down, but when Declan stepped out of the bathroom, he felt unsettlingly more overwhelmed than before.

Ronan had drifted off to sleep. He laid curled up on the bed closest to the window. When he woke up, he held a deck of playing cards in his hand. In nothing but their boxers, they sat on Ronan’s bed and played all the card games they knew until boredom and sleepiness finally wouldn’t let go. Declan doubted that another round of blackjack—or even a second round of karaoke to Queen—would help, so he got up and turned off the light.

“Good night, Ronan.”

His brother let out a gruff, tired reply. It didn’t take long for his breaths to even with the careless ease of slumber.

Declan stood in the dark for some time before he crawled onto his own bed, sitting with his bare back pressed up against the cool wood of the headboard. He had placed the gun underneath his pillows and now he found himself slipping his hand underneath them, touching the cold, twisted presence of the weapon with the tips of his fingers. How he hated everything it stood for.

He clenched his hands into fists and pulled his hand out from under the pillows. He leaned his head against the wall. God, he was exhausted, but he knew it would take the world burning before he would finally relent and rest, so he sat there in the dark, alone, with nothing but the thunder and lightning for company. He contemplated the thought of turning on the TV, watch a cartoon or the news or a late-night movie, but he let the suggestion slip away like water on his skin. It would be better if he stayed aware of his surroundings as much as he could.

The minutes ticked by silently. He listened to the sound of the rumbling thunder and Ronan’s soft breathing and for anything else.

There was nothing else.

Declan glanced at the digital clock that laid on the small table between the beds. Barely even half an hour had passed. He bit his lip, thinking. He couldn’t do this all night. Maybe he was letting his paranoia get too much of him. He’d been careful. He’d been smart. He would wake up tomorrow and see that nothing had changed, that Ronan was safe, and that the fears of the dark had only been intangible things of his head.

But those were lies and he knew it. Even in a different town, in a random hotel and a locked room with a gun by his side, Declan still felt vulnerable, touchable, in danger—and with Ronan he felt the same by a tenfold.

Fatigue was beginning to cloud his mind. It made the world blurry and dim. He shivered, wanting to wrap the blankets around himself, but he knew that if he did, he would find himself placing his head against the pillows and drifting off into oblivion.

Declan got off the bed and began pacing around the room. He did everything he could to occupy his time: push-ups, sit-ups, shadow boxing, handstands, jumping jacks. He even resorted to going to the bathroom and splashing icy water against his face and pinching himself. He stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what the hell he even thought he was capable of.

Finally, he found himself sitting back on his bed. Only an hour had passed. He held back a groan. Maybe now he was just being ridiculous. He leaned over the bed and reached for his pants, searching for the pocket with his phone and pulling it out. He clicked to his alarm. A thirty-minute nap wouldn’t do any harm.

* * *

Declan woke up more tired than he had before sleeping. Quickly, he turned off the alarm and rolled onto his back. This was hopeless. He was being a stubborn, fucking moron.

The thunder and lightning had stopped, but now it was raining. He could hear the raindrops against the glass of the window. It sounded so nice. He closed his eyes, feeling himself relax, feeling his mind finally begin to calm down.

He was half on the verge of unconsciousness when past the rain, past Ronan’s feather-light breaths, Declan heard a slight jingling.

It took no less than a second for Declan to open his eyes and reach for the gun and get to his feet. Quietly, he made his way to the door. He listened close and his breath nearly hitched in his throat with dread when the jingling sounded again, too close for comfort, right outside the door, confirming his worst fears to be true.

Right then in there, in nothing but his boxers and a gun in his hand, Declan whispered a quick prayer before he unlocked the door and threw it open, hitting it against the people standing outside. It was a pair of men, one a head taller than the other. Declan had never seen them before. He would have preferred it to stay that way.

He pointed the gun towards them, ready to shoot at either one. “What the fuck do you want?” He demanded.

To his relief, the men backed up at the sight of the gun.

Keeping his eyes trained forward on his targets, Declan moved the door with his foot and kicked it shut.

He neared closer to the men, adopting the image of a boy who knew exactly what the hell he was capable of. He narrowed his eyes. “Answer me!”

The men exchanged a glance.

The taller one gave Declan a smile. It wasn’t exactly a threat, but it wasn’t friendly either. “If you are who we know you are, then you know exactly what it is that we want,” he said, voice leveled and self-assured.

Declan feigned ignorance. “Give me a straight answer or I will blow your brains out,” he growled. “I don’t have all night.”

The tall one smiled again, but Declan wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t going to be tricked so easily. As the bastard smiled, the other one started to make a move, but Declan caught sight of him and he pointed the gun and pressed the trigger. The sound of the gun firing burst out loud into the hallway, ferocious and angry, echoing in their ears. If Declan was lucky, anyone awoken or awake would simply assume it had been the boom of thunder.

The shorter one clutched at his stomach, bent towards the ground.

The tall one blinked, rather he was surprised or not was hard to tell, but then he turned and bared his teeth at Declan. “Guess I should know better than to be polite with pig-headed rich boys like you.”

“Don’t worry.” Declan titled his head, a simple gesture that he knew made him appear cocky and arrogant and despicable. “I only shot him in the abdomen. Nothing  _too_  serious”—he made himself pause—“well, not yet anyways.”

“You’re going to regret that, Declan Lynch,” the tall man jeered. “Now. Give us the Greywaren.”

Declan raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even fucking know what that is.”

This was not the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. Declan had a strong inkling of what or—to be more accurate— _who_  the Greywaren was. He hadn’t at first, but as soon as the realization had occurred to him, he’d been unable to deny that it wasn’t true. If the Greywaren had been anything else, he gladly would have given it up in a heartbeat, just so that they would all finally leave him and his brothers alone.

But that proved difficult and impossible when the Greywaren was his own brother. And Declan would rather kill than give Ronan up.

“I may be rich, but I’m not a drug dealer,” Declan told the man. “Go get your freaky hallucinogens from someone else.”

The tall man burst out into a series of guffaws, distracting Declan slightly and he was a second too late in reacting to the attack. The short man slashed at Declan with a knife, managing to cut across the left side of Declan’s stomach before he could move out of reach.

Declan let out a curse. The pain wasn’t horrible, only a slight, biting sensation, but blood had begun to seep from the cut, dark against his skin. He aimed the gun and shot the short man in the thigh. Another explosion blasted through the air. The man crumbled to a knee and dropped his knife.

The tall man didn’t look alarmed. “Fire that thing again and someone’s going to be calling the cops,” he said. “I’d be surprised if someone hasn’t already. Think you’re so smart, but let me in you on a little secret: You aren’t going to be able to play the role of big brother protector if you’re being pounded in a jail cell.” He punctuated his words with a rude gesture.

For a slight second, Declan couldn’t breathe. Anger came to him like a shark at the scent of blood. But then he gave the man a wide smile. It was a calm smile, a warning—the one he used whenever he wanted to let someone know that bad news was coming, that they were going to regret whatever it was that they had done.

“I can say it was self-defense.” He kept his voice even and superior. “I know how fucked up the justice system is. Money goes a long, long way. We’ll see who’s—”

The tall man punched him in the stomach, knocking the breath out from Declan and sending him doubling over. The man took the chance to yank the gun out from his hands.

As Declan fell to his knees, the man he’d shot two times looked up. His expression was contorted in pain, but the sneer that came across his face was eager and vengeful. It was hideous. Declan turned his eyes away, unable to look and aware of how weak that made him.

“I’ll go get the Greywaren, Rick,” the tall man said, casually. He kicked hard at Declan’s shoulder with a foot and Declan collapsed onto his side. “You can take care of this little shit right here.”

Declan struggled to get to his feet, but the short man—Rick—now had possession of the gun and he pressed it to Declan’s forehead. “Game over, little boy.”

Declan squeezed his eyes shut. Damn it. He’d failed. In the end, he’d fucking failed. He’d tried so hard, but now it was coming to this. He’d die and Ronan would be taken and he didn’t dare think of what would happen to Matthew. He could only hope that Gansey would take him in like he’d done to Ronan.

A tight, bitter ache throbbed in Declan’s chest. He should have talked to Ronan, should have asked him for help, should have been a better, worthier brother.

Rick pulled the gun from his forehead. “Hey, you know what? I actually have all night, so”—Declan felt the barrel of the gun against his left shoulder blade—“I might as well take this nice and slow.”

With a grunt and breaths uneven from his own injuries, Rick jerked Declan to his feet and tugged him down the hallway, out the door, and into the pouring rain. It was too dark to see his surroundings.

Declan was shoved onto the pavement. His knees stung as they scraped open. He pressed his forehead against the ground, cursing under his breath, letting out profanity after profanity. He’d once heard that cussing helped increase pain tolerance. What a load of bullshit that was.

Declan let out a cry as agonizing pain shot through his body, stemming from his left arm. He clutched at his tricep, grimacing at the slick, oozing gush of blood. His fingers touched the torn hole of the bullet opening and almost immediately, he began to retch.

He could hear Rick laughing in the background, but to his ears, it sounded as if the fucker was in a distant universe. He couldn’t even hear the rain anymore.

Drowsiness began to weigh heavy on his eyelids. Declan was aware of himself still trying to vomit, but the edges of everything felt as if they were beginning to fade. Was this death? Was he seriously going to die of a bleeding arm and a small, insignificant cut? He closed his eyes, felt himself stop retching, and slumped forward.

Maybe he’d lost more blood than he’d thought.

The world went to sleep.

* * *

A scream awoke the world.

Declan struggled to lift his head, but although he looked, he could not make sense of what he saw. Two forms and then only one. He sunk back down onto the rigid ground. Nothing hurt anymore but still he wanted to cry.

Someone was shouting at him, turning him over, resting his head against something soft. He thought he heard his name.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Declan, if you die I swear to God I—” The voice broke off and Declan heard a strangled, awful sound.

“Ronan?” Declan gasped the name. He could feel the rain cold against his skin, soaking every inch of him.

“I called the ambulance,” he heard Ronan speak. “They’ll be right over, so just hang on. If you’re really the badass you say you are, then you aren’t going to die on me so easily, you fucking hear me?”

Declan wanted to nod, but he found that he couldn’t. He felt so tired and drained of energy. He heaved in a breath and managed to ask, “What happened to…?” He trailed off, unable to come up with the right words to finish the question.

Ronan’s voice neared close. “I turned them into flowers.”

The idea was so funny that a laugh burst out from Declan, although it hurt to do so. He grinned, feeling dopey. “How?”

“I used a syringe from my dream,” his brother explained. “It contains some sort of concoction that turns people into flowers.”

“I want a hundred of those,” Declan heard himself say.

“Perfect murder weapon, huh?” Ronan chuckled. “Science is going to have a hard time explaining this one.”

Declan wanted to laugh—or maybe he did laugh. He wasn’t sure. “Scar—” He faltered and started again. “Scara—”

He felt his brother’s hands on his face, restless and insistent and desperate. “What is it?”

“Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?” Declan asked.

Ronan laughed. “You,” he said, a smirk in his voice, “are a fucking asshole.”

Declan smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> If you tumblr, check out the fanfic here: http://faerielament.tumblr.com/post/112983898076/the-raven-cycle-this-cruel-tired-world - and reblog/like!


End file.
